


Mercy

by Vituperative_cupcakes



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Hewlett's superpower is niceness, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Simcoe's totally a sub, and for that he gets all the sex, onesided Simcoe/Anna
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-14 06:09:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11777088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vituperative_cupcakes/pseuds/Vituperative_cupcakes
Summary: “Be kind,” Simcoe begged, “and teach me kindness in return.”





	Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> This may just get blasted out of canon by the finale, but never let canon get in the way of good smut, I always say. This was inspired by aypotayla's tumblr post dissecting the ~~live-action slash fic~~ apple scene from 4.09 and the bdsm undertones.

Edmund Hewlett smiled to himself as he vetted the bill of sale for household supplies. The sensation of having an estate all to oneself was still so new it made even extremely mundane tasks pleasant, even downright pleasurable. His tricorn balanced on the corner of his writing desk. Afternoon dust motes danced in the sunlight. More than anywhere else in America, Whitehall manor felt like home.

A creak gave away a presence on the stairs. Hewlett couldn’t help but tense up. No matter how at home he felt, the lessons of battle were not lost on him.

“Hullo?” Hewlett grabbed up the knife that he kept at close hand at all times now. No answer. Another creak, as if the wood of the stairs was merely settling.

Edmund knew better. He took up position behind the bedroom door, breath held. There was no hiding the fact that he was home, now. His only hope was to take whomever it was, friend or foe, by surprise.

There was a featherlight trace of steps that could almost be prescribed to an overactive imagination. The flush of breath that might just be the breeze hitting the windowpanes. Edmund tensed, coiling like a spring, ready to lash out with his blade as the door was pushed open—

—by one John Graves Simcoe, in civilian dress and and unarmed. His posture was relaxed and not battle-ready as he scanned the room for its occupant.

“I would have thought you’d ship back to India or some sunnier clime,” Hewlett said. Simcoe startled but suppressed it, only a twitch of his shoulders gave away he’d been surprised. He turned around to face Hewlett.  “If you’re here seeking blood, I've no wish to oblige you. I am a man of science now, and a civilian at that.”

Edmund stood up and made a show of sheathing his knife. A smile played around the corners of Simcoe’s lips at the sight of his old enemy.

“Well well,” he said in his trademark near-falsetto, “it appears I've come to the wrong place then. I’m looking for a one Major Edmund Hewlett. Might he be an acquaintance of yours?”

Edmund snorted. “I’m not playing your games, Simcoe. If you wish to gut me in my own home, get it over with. If not, I've more important matters to attend to.”

Simcoe’s smile dipped a bit. “You wound me, sir. I come bearing an olive branch.”

“Twined with brambles, no doubt. I’ve no time for games, Simcoe, I'm really quite busy—”

“Yes, I've heard. Lord of Whitehall. Have you renewed any old acquaintances?”

It was clearly a hook baited for news of Anna Strong, and Hewlett would not oblige. “The townsfolk are no more welcome to me than they are the tax collector.” Hewlett stepped out from behind the door and then pushed it as open as it would go, gesturing back at the empty hall. Simcoe made no notice of the gesture. His mad blue eyes were still pinned to Hewlett, dissecting him as intently as he might on the battlefield. Hewlett felt a stab of panic before he fought it down. He had resolved long ago not to be afraid of Simcoe, to stop giving him space in his thoughts that would be better dedicated to more pleasant subjects.

“If it’s an olive branch you’re extending,” Hewlett said at last, “perhaps a drink is in order. I have Madeira...or scotch if you prefer.”

“Madeira sounds divine.” Simcoe did not move to sit on the chair. Instead he went to the bed and flung himself backwards as a child might, kicking his heels and bouncing a little. Hewlett scrutinized him a little. Simcoe truly was an enigma, as equally likely to skewer a man or pat him on the back. What game was he playing now?

Hewlett poured two glasses of wine from the thick glass bottle, making sure all his movements were open to Simcoe’s view so he would not suspect attempted poisoning.

Simcoe accepted his glass with thanks. “To your health, Major Hewlett.”

“And yours, Simcoe.” Hewlett drained his glass, still refusing to play into the game of titles Simcoe seemed so intent on.

Simcoe finished his wine and then played with the glass, rolling the rim along his lower lip. “I can’t help but feel the good major still distrusts my intent. Can it be he did not truly mean his parting volley?”

“I meant it, Simcoe—”

“—John, surely—”

“—however that does not mean I must tolerate any more of your games. Say your piece and then leave.”

Simcoe drew in his lower lip, a small admission of temper. “I am not bereft of feelings, Major Hewlett, and such hostility is unearned. I have not made any violent overtures, nor will I. I simply ask the consideration you might give any passing stranger.”

“But we aren’t strangers, are we?” Hewlett asked idly, “we know each other entirely too well.”

Simcoe drew in a breath. “Yes. We do.”

Hewlett didn’t know what to make of that, or the look Simcoe was giving him.

“Simcoe—”

“—John—”

“—Captain, Colonel, grand commander of the king’s privy-bucket, please get to the bloody point.”

Simcoe smiled, but it was  uncertain. “This is a sensitive matter. I must ask your discretion, whatever you chose to do with my request.”

“I am a closed circle, Simcoe.” Hewlett gestured. “Please.”

Simcoe’s breath was uneven, his lids fluttering uncertainty.

“Mercy, you pledged to me,” he said, rising so that Hewlett tensed, “mercy, leniency, perhaps even kindness. Such qualities, I admit, I have always been short on, having been shown very little in my life. My request is simple, Edmund—” he stepped forward, hands out. “Show me.”

Hewlett frowned, looking bemusedly up and down at Simcoe. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Simcoe’s breathing was harder, now. His face was wide open, a picture of trust. Hewlett got a glimpse of the boy he surely once was, begging for understanding in a world that had little to spare.

“Be kind to me,” Simcoe breathed, gingerly taking Hewlett’s hand. When he did not pull away, Simcoe guided the hand towards his stomach. With his own free hand, Simcoe pulled the shirt up from his breeches, holding the hem high enough that Hewlett could see the scar he’d made, along with others, far nastier wounds that must pain him still. Hewlett breathed sharply through his nose as his fingertips made contact with Simcoe’s fevered skin.

“Be kind,” Simcoe repeated, “and teach me kindness in return.”

There were many emotions churning through Hewlett’s mind, foremost was that of fear and disgust. He had no idea the depths of Simcoe’s perversion, this un-Christian lust for blood and pain. A man who had once tried to gut him, had attempted to get him killed many times, had made threatening overtures to the woman Hewlett loved (and still loved), who had been like a boy torturing small animals for fun…

...was now asking to be taught kindness. Hewlett faltered. Simcoe had run several large risks coming back here, all for an audience with his old foe in a town that held no love for him. He was vulnerable here. Had he truly given up his savage ways? Perhaps it was a trick. Best to proceed cautiously.

“...lie on the bed,” he said, watching Simcoe carefully. The bigger man stepped back at once, letting Hewlett’s hand slip from his own. The front of his breeches tented impressively as he lay on the thick cotton quilt. Hewlett’s head filled unbidden with images of Anna riding such a beast, whimpering and panting with exertion. He flushed. Simcoe’s hedonism was contagious.

Simcoe lay relaxed, eyes on Hewlett. Cautiously, Hewlett went to his buttons and began undoing them one by one. Simcoe’s chest was covered with hair like curled copper wire and  laced with even more scars, some fresher than others. Hewlett clicked his tongue.

“You really must take better care of yourself,” he chided. Simcoe drew in a breath. It must have been the right thing to say.

On a whim, Hewlett bent and brushed his lips to the scar he’d made the night Simcoe had raided the rebel camp with intent to finish him off. Simcoe held his breath. Hewlett pressed his lips again, nuzzling the scar. He nearly jumped when hands found their way to his hair, visions of snapping necks dancing through his mind, but Simcoe merely cradled his head encouragingly. Hewlett found his way to another scar, a jagged one, and dragged his lips down the length of it. Simcoe’s breath came in gasps now. Hewlett kissed his way up the bigger man’s chest, showing the gentleness he had been saving for dear, sweet Anna. To feel her smooth, fair skin beneath his lips, have her gasping _Edmund, Edmund—_

Simcoe’s hold suddenly tightened and Hewlett found his head dragged upwards. Simcoe’s kiss was shockingly gentle and mannered, as if he had practiced it. Again, Hewlett thought of the other man preparing for such a tryst with Anna, rehearsing the gentleness he intended to show to her and only her.

“Say my name,” Simcoe begged urgently in-between capturing Hewlett’s lips, “say my name.”

“Simcoe,” Hewlett gasped, “John.”

Simcoe became fluid, his body adjusting to accommodate Hewlett’s as he pulled the other man on top of him in the bed. Hewlett was only mildly surprised to realise he was hard as well, welcoming the firm press of another body. Sparks flew in the corners of his vision as their members danced between the two of them. Hewlett found a handhold in the frenzied wildfire of Simcoe’s hair. Simcoe jerked his head like a horse champing at the bit, using a free hand to press Hewlett down into him.

Hewlett pulled away and fixed him with a stern look. Simcoe whimpered, reaching. Hewlett held up a finger.

“Now, John,” he said, his voice ragged and dark with lust, “we are Englishmen. We do not rut through our clothes like savages.” His hand drifted to the fastening of Simcoe’s breeches. “We must show discipline. Restraint.” He grabbed hold of the bigger man’s cock, red and throbbing from arousal. “Manners.”  His hand moved so that Simcoe bit down on the insides of his cheeks and writhed on the feather mattress. “It would hardly do to complete ourselves in our trousers like amorous schoolboys, now would it?”

Simcoe shook his head fitfully. His large hands dipped beneath the waist of Hewlett’s trousers, making him jump. Impatient fingers parted brass buttons until Hewlett stuck proudly from his garments as Simcoe did. The other man showed little restraint, pumping away at his newfound prize fervently. Hewlett had to shout and slow him with a hand. He didn’t want to climax first. He felt it would undercut the lesson.

“There’s a thing about mercy, John,” he murmured into the shell of Simcoe’s ear, “it is hard won. It takes much effort to be the bigger man, to put the other before yourself. It takes strength. A greater strength than even the battlefield. I know you’ve struggled with this in the past, so I must impart this to you: you think yourself a warrior? Show mercy. Wrench yourself from the wheel-ruts of your past. You made the rangers a force to be reckoned with. Now turn that effort on yourself. Of all the men I have tamed from savagery to civility...you may be the most magnificent.”

Simcoe came with a wrenching cry of “Edmund!” that, more than anything else, sent Hewlett over the edge. His mind muddled thoughts of Anna naked, Simcoe naked, the two of them in bed, the three of them in bed, mouths, breasts, cocks, a confused tangle of flesh.

Hewlett fell to Simcoe’s side, letting his cheek rest on the other man’s shoulder. They gasped battle-hard breaths as the quiet of the house fell in once more, blanketing them with peace. Hewlett’s finger idled over the knife-scar in Simcoe’s stomach and wondered if someone would pop their head in the open door, discovering them both and sending up an alarm. What would they do then? Run away together?

“I’ve given up on her, you know,” Simcoe’s voice was lower than normal, and oddly sombre. “Whether or not she becomes yours, I know she will never be mine. I wonder now if I ever had a chance.”

Hewlett didn’t know what to say to that, and so said nothing.

Simcoe rolled his head so that their faces were mere inches apart. “I must thank you for teaching me such a lesson. I have no one else who would have mentored me in such a way.”

Hewlett thought of Simcoe’s life, of his childhood, his career as a soldier. No one?

Simcoe read his face. “I had some small kindnesses here and there. Drizzles in a drought. My life was not an easy one, kindness was a luxury.”

Hewlett freed a hand to pet the hair away from Simcoe’s head. Simcoe discovered the other in the covers and intertwined their fingers.

“If not Anna,” Hewlett said at length, “then surely someone. Shower them with your newfound kindness. Spoil them. Seduce them with the riches of your spirit.”

Simcoe chuckled. Then his eyes grew grave again. “I thought you would turn me away. I thought you hated me.”

“I did,” Hewlett admitted, “or I thought I did for a long time. Then I realized that what I hated in you were all qualities I despised in myself. We are products of the same mill, ground differently.”

Simcoe blinked. “No man has so freely admitted to a similarity with me before.”

“Hopefully it won’t be the last.” Hewlett yawned, stifling it behind one hand. After one last lingering moment on the bed, the two men drew apart to get dressed.

“Well, any travel plans?” Hewlett said with more good cheer than he felt. Was he actually reluctant to see the other man leave? “Perhaps the tropics or Africa?”

Simcoe shook his head. “England,” he muttered, tucking himself back into his trousers. “I’ve never been. I’ve heard it’s lovely. Not as nice as here, but..” He tightened his coat with a jerk.

Hewlett furrowed his brow. “You’ve never been…” He cleared his throat. “Well, wherever you go, I should hope you’ll hold my lessons close to your heart.”

“As close as an assassin's blade,” Simcoe said with mock solemnity. He bent low and brushed a kiss on Hewlett’s mouth.

“Edmund,” he said, giving a little salute.

“John,” Hewlett said, “John Graves Simcoe, goodbye.”


End file.
